


through a glass, darkly

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternative reality, Mary Campbell tries to fight her destiny. Her best friend is acting strange, creepy!stranger!Loki is creepy and strange, and the weird dreams aren't helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	through a glass, darkly

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [SPN Reversebang 2012](http://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com). Thanks to [crimsontoad](http://crimsontoad.livejournal.com) for the wonderful art/story idea. Much love and gratitude to the fabulous [applegeuse](http://applegeuse.livejournal.com) for beta-reading. ♥

‘And now for our next guest,’ the presenter says, straightening his already impeccably-positioned tie. ‘If there’s anyone on the planet who doesn’t know this face, what rock have you been living under?’ He chuckles at his own feeble joke, prompting a smattering of laughs from the live audience.

‘That’s your cue,’ someone whispers, giving Mary a little push, and Mary takes a deep breath and walks out on to the stage. The lights are too bright, huge circles of artificial brightness that don’t allow her to look directly at the audience. She sits down in the chair opposite the presenter, squirming a little as she sinks immediately into the too-soft seat, which is so low that she has to bend her knees to sit semi-comfortably.

‘So, Ms Campbell!’ The interviewer turns to her, swiveling his torso, rubbing his hands together in fake excitement. ‘How are we today?’

‘Just fine, thanks,’ she says tightly, forcing a smile.

‘I hope you don’t mind if I cut right to the chase,’ he says, smiling so widely that she wonders how he can keep it up. ‘Have you made a decision yet?’

‘About?’ she asks, as if she doesn’t know what he’s referring to.

‘Why, about young Mr Winchester’s proposal, of course! The whole nation—the whole world, in fact—is waiting, holding its breath!’

‘I don’t know about that,’ she says lightly.

‘Oh, but of course you do!’ 

Mary cringes inwardly, hating that she can hear the exclamation points in his speech. ‘Well,’ she says, drawing out the word to buy time. ‘I really think the decision should be mine.’

‘Of course, of course,’ he says soothingly, reaching over to pat her arm. ‘Let’s move on to another question, shall we?’ He picks a seemingly random card from a small pile on the little glass table in front of him. ‘Rose Morgan from Nashville, Tennessee, asks: ‘Mary, what was it like growing up with everyone knowing who you were? Did you ever wish you were someone ordinary, instead of being the most special person on Earth?’ What do you say to that, Mary?’

Mary is relieved at the somewhat innocuous question, and answers it with the standard, rehearsed answers she’s become used to giving: she’s honored that she was chosen, she’s conscious of her duty, and no, she wouldn’t trade places with anyone else if she could. The heat of the lights is making her sweat under the layer of make-up they’ve put on her face, and she feels like a painted clown performing in a circus ring. At least clowns get paid, and have the choice not to be clowns. She suppresses the urge to snigger in revulsion. 

The interviewer is selecting another card. ‘Let’s see now. Rory Tyler from the Anglican Church in Patience, Texas, thank you for sending in this question. Mary, Rory would like to know if you’ve considered the implications of your name. Like Mother Mary, you have been blessed with the task of bringing the world’s saviors to life. How do you feel about that, and how will it affect your decision to marry John Winchester or not?’

Mary clears her throat. ‘As I’ve said before, none of the holy texts actually mentions the father of my children by name, so, yeah, it’s a tough decision to make.’

‘My name’s Joseph,’ yells a tall, skinny blond guy, standing up in his seat. ‘Marry me!’

Mary excuses herself amid shouts of laughter, shaking with rage.

 

\--

 

‘I don’t think that pillow’s done anything wrong,’ Anna says, her lips quirking with amusement. She’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of Mary’s bed, her hair flaming in the sunlight streaming in from the window. 

Mary throws the wrecked pillow into the wall, and it sinks to the floor in a flurry of feathers. ‘Fucking assholes.’

‘’Mare’ is short for Mary, right? Or maybe for ‘heavenly broodmare?’ Anna grins, squeezing Mary’s ankle to compensate for being annoying.

Mary laughs helplessly. ‘You’re such a bitch, Ann.’

‘I know. And stop shortening my name.’ Anna mock-scowls, and Mary feels herself relaxing. Her whole life, Anna’s the only one who’s treated her like a regular girl. Anna epitomizes the best friend, throwing snarky one-liners around and mocking difficult situations to make them more bearable, her humor so well-timed that sometimes it seems as if she’s walked right out of a sitcom.

‘Seriously, though. No one, not one single fucking person, has ever asked me if I _want_ to be the mother of these so-called saviors, you know? What if I don’t want to marry John? What if I don’t want to have freaking kids?’

‘So tell them that.’ Anna reaches over to pluck a feather out of Mary’s hair.

‘Yeah, like that’s really going to work. They’ll probably chain me up in a cellar and send some priest to exorcise me.’

‘Or breed you,’ Anna says, straight-faced. Mary throws herself on to Anna and tickles her until she begs for mercy.

 

\--

 

That night, she dreams the dream again: she’s pinned to the ceiling, blood dripping from a gash in her stomach, while an infant squirms in the cradle beneath her, drops of blood on his tiny lips.

A little golden-haired boy is next to the cradle. ‘Sammy,’ he’s sobbing, trying to get to the infant, but he’s too small to climb over the side. He looks up and sees her, his face twisting into a mask of terror. 

‘ _Dean!_ ’ As always, her own scream rouses her. She sits up, shuddering, determined not to cry. 

Dean and Sammy. She only knows them from dreams, and not all the dreams are bad. Sometimes they’re happy, even: Dean carefully spooning Sammy’s baby food into his mouth; Sammy’s happy little gurgles as she tosses him into the air and catches him securely; both of them snuggled beside her as she reads to them, Dean listening with wide eyes and Sammy playing with her hair. 

She knows from the dreams that Dean’s favorite book is _The Little Prince_. Even in the dreams, she’s read it to him so often that she knows parts of it almost by heart now. She knows he doesn’t understand half the words in the book, but he makes an earnest effort, his big green eyes intently following the words as she traces a fingertip along them so he can look at the words she’s reading. Sometimes, he falls asleep and she looks at the pictures of the little prince, forlorn and golden-haired, until the dream dissolves.

She gets out of bed and pulls a robe around her shoulders, going downstairs to get a drink of cold water from the fridge. The house is quiet, nothing to distract her from the jumble of thoughts in her head. She debates knocking on her parents’ door, and decides against it.

 

\--

 

‘Mommy?’

She wakes in a dream, blinking the sleep from her eyes as Dean comes in, clutching his coloring book. ‘What is it, baby?’

‘Draw me a sheep?’ He’s shaking, his face streaked with tears that he’s tried unsuccessfully to rub away.

She sits him on her lap and they draw for a while, her fingers smoothing his still baby-soft hair away from his face, her arms circling him. 

 

\--

 

‘Wow.’ Anna says, slurping her iced coffee through a straw. ‘These are some dreams, Mare.’

‘Don’t I know it.’ Mary rubs at her eyes, takes another sip of her strong black coffee. ‘They seem… kind of unreal. You know what I mean? Like watching a movie.’

They’re sitting in the sunlight at one of the cafeteria tables, and her next class is in ten minutes. People are milling about, talking about term papers and time tables and everything that no longer feels important.

‘Are you going to do it?’ Anna glances at Mary over the rim of her oversized cardboard cup. There are larger-than-life coffee beans printed on its sides, artfully designed to give them a hand-drawn look.

‘Going to do what?’

Anna makes an impatient sound. ‘Marry John, of course.’

Mary thinks of the two defenseless children from her dreams. ‘Not if I can help it.’

‘What?’ Anna’s frown lines become more pronounced. Something’s wrong with the picture, but Mary can’t put her finger on it.

‘What d’you mean, what?’

‘You said you’ve seen them. Your children. How can you see them and not want to have them? You’re just going to let them never be born?’

‘I didn’t say that, Ann.’

‘Sure as hell sounded like that’s what you were saying.’ There’s a flash of something in Anna’s eyes, and Mary is suddenly reminded of the bright lights during her television interview.

‘Anna, you don’t get it. You know what it’s like, seeing them? It’s like the script’s already been decided.’

‘Maybe it’s just wishful thinking.’ Anna’s trying to be comforting, but the words sound hollow to Mary. ‘Maybe your subconscious just dreamt up two sweet little kids.’

‘It’s not wishful thinking.’ Mary gets to her feet, grabbing her books. ‘Not unless I _want_ to die stuck to the ceiling in a burning house.’

 

\--

 

The night her life changes is a night much like any other.

She’s walking back home from her last class of the day, her bag slung over her shoulder and her books held against her chest. She’s just said goodbye to Anna at her doorstep; they only live a block apart. She’s walking down the cobbled path, her shoes clacking against the stone, when she hears the distinct footfall of another set of shoes.

She’s about to turn around when the man speaks from behind her. ‘So, friend of yours?’

She turns. ‘What?’

‘That red-headed girl you were just with.’

‘What business is it of yours?’

The man gives her what she guesses is supposed to be a winning smile, holding out his hand. ‘I have many names, but you can call me Loki.’

She stands her ground, refusing to be intimidated. ‘Like the god of mischief? Funny. Very creative, I’ll give you that.’ She begins to walk away.

‘She’s no friend of yours, Mary Campbell. She’s an angel.’

Despite herself, Mary stops. ‘What?’

‘Anna is an angel,’ he says slowly and carefully, as though speaking to a very small child. ‘Put here on duty to see that you follow the rules like a good little girl.’

‘Fuck off,’ Mary says. ‘If you come near me again, I’m calling the cops.’

 

\--

 

‘ _Dean!_ ’

She wakes up sobbing this time. His terrified little face. Blood on Sammy’s lips.

She gulps down a glass of water, spilling half of it down her front, and reaches for the phone on her desk.

 

\--

 

‘He said what?’ John looks bewildered, but his hand is clasping hers, warm and large. Sometimes, when they’re curled together in the back of his old van, Mary wants to tell him about her life, spill her secrets like blood from her veins, tell him about demons and vengeful spirits and guns and knives. Unlike other hunters she knows, her family chose to become hunters to protect her, to train her to become strong enough to face her famous destiny. The part about her childhood that the tabloids and the television audiences don’t know is the part that makes her feel the most guilty at times.

She pulls her hand away from John’s. ‘He said Anna’s not human, John. Fuck, I don’t know what to believe. What if he’s right? What if _you’re_ not human either?’

‘Mary, listen to me. These are just dreams, honey. And that man is some asshole who saw you on TV and is trying to fuck with you. Don’t you see?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘I don’t see at all.’ She gets out and slams the door, and the van shudders with the impact.

 

\--

 

‘I know you don’t trust me,’ Loki says, stepping out of the shadows.

‘Damn straight.’ Mary pulls her Beretta from her bag. ‘Start running, unless you want a bullet through your head.’ 

He shrugs. ‘I know your nightmares are getting worse. They’re trying to push you to give in, to say yes.’

‘Who? Who’s giving me these dreams?’

‘I told you. The angels.’

Mary can’t be sure of anything anymore, but a sliver of sincerity seems to be shining through his bravado. ‘Are they real? The dreams? Are those really my children?’

‘Sam and Dean Winchester? Oh yes.’

‘Winchester,’ she says. ‘Of course.’

‘And yes,’ he continues, ‘before you ask, that _is_ how you die, pinned to the ceiling while your babies watch. But that’s irrelevant to the story, really.’

‘Nice to know I’m irrelevant to my own story.’

‘It’s not your story, sweetheart. It’s not even Sam and Dean’s story. It’s Michael and Lucifer’s. It’s the story of God and his little Apocalypse, and you and your children are merely the pawns. You think your sons are going to be heroes? Saviors of the world? Wrong.’

‘Then what’s meant to happen to them? Tell me, damn it, or I’m walking away.’

‘Oh, I’ll do better than that,’ he says. ‘I’ll show you.’

 

\--

 

‘Welcome to Earth Two,’ Loki says, smiling. ‘Well, actually it’s Earth number 63549, but I suppose Earth Two’ll do just fine.’

‘I don’t recall giving you permission to zap me places.’ Mary looks around. ‘Where are we?’

‘As I was saying. Earth Two, circa 2012.’

They’re standing in what looks like an abandoned warehouse. From somewhere behind a ten-foot high stack of precariously balanced boxes, there are the unmistakable sounds of a fight going on.

‘Come on.’ Loki tugs at her sleeve. ‘You’ll love this.’

Two men are back to back, fighting about six others. At first Mary thinks the two are hopelessly outnumbered, but then their antagonists fall one by one, their throats or stomachs slashed mercilessly by a knife with a jagged edge that the two fighters take turns using. 

‘Meet Sam and Dean Winchester,’ Loki murmurs.

The shorter of the two advances on the last enemy left standing, and Mary watches as a familiar-looking column of thick black smoke emerges from the man’s gasping mouth. The demon vanishes through a window and the man falls like his strings have been cut. The _man_ , Mary thinks, sickened. Her ‘sons’ have just killed human beings, and from the appearance of things, it’s been just another day at the office for them.

Loki claps his hands together. ‘Well done, boys, really. Awesome moves there.’ 

The ‘boys’—both considerably older than Mary—whirl around. Mary looks from one to the other as the taller one says ‘Mom?’ The other has vivid, startlingly familiar green eyes. 

‘Gabriel?’ Dean’s voice is like her father’s, rough and pitiless. ‘We thought you were dead.’

‘Not so easy to get rid of me, as you can see.’ Loki spreads his arms and does a little twirl.

‘This is just freaking great.’ Mary rounds on Loki. ‘You brought me here to show me my kids turn into monsters? Is that it?’

‘The monsters are those sons of bitches we just killed.’ Dean wipes the blade of his knife against his sleeve. ‘Not us.’

‘Really?’ Mary asks. ‘What were they, then? Werewolves? Vampires? Some kind of creatures with human faces?’

‘Um, they were humans.’ Sam’s voice is quieter than Dean’s, less self-assured. ‘They were possessed by demons,’ he adds quickly.

‘That’s what I thought. Where I come from, we don’t kill possessed people. We exorcise the demons from them.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’ Dean glances at Sam before turning his gaze back to Mary. ‘Come on, they were probably dead already.’

‘Probably?’ Mary knows her voice is more of a shriek at the moment, but she doesn’t care. ‘You just killed half a dozen people on a probability?’

‘We saved a fuckton more,’ Dean says, and walks away.

 

\--

 

The shower feels good. Warm water sluicing down her body, cleaning away the horror and disgust of seeing her sons kill people. Loki—Gabriel—had vanished, there one moment and gone the next, leaving her with more questions than she’d had her whole life.

She’s toweling her hair dry when there’s a tentative knock on the door.

‘I thought you might be hungry,’ Sam says when she opens the door, holding a box of pizza like a peace offering.

‘Where’s your brother?’

‘He’s just.’ Sam exhales loudly, his breath misting the air. ‘Give him some time.’

Mary shakes her head. ‘I don’t see why I should. I don’t see why Loki or Gabriel or whoever the hell he is would want to dump me here with the two of you and vanish without a word.’

‘You’re not stuck with us,’ Sam says quietly. ‘You could leave, if you really wanted to. But I wish you’d stay.’

‘I’m not your mother, Sam.’

‘I know,’ he says quickly. ‘I—I just. I never had what Dean had, you know? Not that I can remember. I’m not asking you for—I just. I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone.’

‘It’s okay.’ Mary puts her hand on his, remembering tiny fingers clasping hers. ‘I’ll tell you what I remember.’

His face lights up like a child’s. 

They spend the next hour cross-legged on the bed, sharing the pizza, and she tells him everything she remembers about the happy baby from her dreams.

‘You loved playing with my hair. You’d grab at it like a kitten, swat at it and tug it. There was this one dream I had in which Dean hurt himself, fell down and got a cut above his eye and howled. You were terrified, kept looking at him and crying. And this other time, he was holding your hand and trying to get you to draw.’ 

She glances up at Sam. He’s still watching her with something akin to awe, such a little-boy look on his face that she can suddenly see the resemblance with the baby from her dreams.

‘You said,’ he begins, sounding a little choked, and clears his throat. ‘You said the angels showed you these things in dreams?’

‘That’s what Loki said. He said my friend Anna was an angel, sent to keep an eye on me.’

‘Anna was an angel in this world,’ Sam says.

Mary’s heart clenches. ‘And the Apocalypse?’

Sam gives her a faint smile. ‘Come and gone.’

A pounding on the door makes them both start. ‘Sammy! You in there?’

Sam gets up, looks quickly at Mary. ‘Please. He’s just... He’s really had a hard time of it lately.’

She nods, and Sam goes to the door. He doesn’t open it all the way at first, and Mary can’t make out the words he says, his tone hushed.

Dean pushes past Sam. ‘You’re not our mother.’ His face is expressionless. ‘You’re not our responsibility.’ 

There’s no connection at all between the angelic child from her dreams and this hard-faced, bitter man. He turns around, starts walking away.

‘Draw me a sheep,’ Mary says, and he stops, his shoulders going rigid.

‘That’s what you used to say to her, wasn’t it? When you were scared and had a nightmare? It's from the book she used to read to you.’

‘Don’t.’ His voice is a hiss. ‘Don’t you fucking talk about her.’ 

‘I saw it, Dean. I saw you, I felt what she felt. She loved you so much, it broke her heart to even look at the pictures in your stupid little book. And then someone killed her and turned her precious babies into hunters. You think I could ever let that happen? I’m not going to let them be born. I’m not going to let them turn into you two. Not ever.’

Dean starts to laugh.

‘Something funny?’ Mary turns to Sam for clarification.

‘That’s, um, that’s kinda what we told our mom,’ Sam says. ‘That we were okay with never being born.’

‘And you told her this when, exactly?’

‘Angels, Mary.’ Dean sits down on one of the beds, grinning humorlessly. ‘They took us back in time to try to stop her from being killed.’

‘I guess the angels in your world are nicer than the ones in mine, huh?’

‘Nah, they’re still dicks. They wanted the Apocalypse to play out according to their script.’

‘And clearly it didn’t?’ Mary looks from Dean to Sam. ‘Since you’re both here?’

‘No, it didn’t.’ Sam offers her a small smile. ‘Not exactly.’

‘What does that mean, not exactly?’

‘Sammy went to Hell. Lucifer tortured him for a century until an angel friend of ours got him out.’

‘Dean’s been to Hell too, so we’re kinda even,’ Sam adds quickly.

Mary closes her eyes briefly. ‘I don’t… I don’t understand the full implications of what you’re saying, but if the kids I’m supposed to have are meant to go through anything close to what you’re talking about, then…’

‘Then they should never be born.’ Dean finds the words that Mary can’t, like they were hovering in the air, waiting to be caught.

Mary feels exhaustion spill over her like a wave. ‘I need… I need time to think about this.’

‘There’s nothing to think about,’ Dean starts, but Sam puts a hand on his arm. 

‘Come on, Dean. Let her rest for a bit.’ 

Mary sees them exchange a look that she can’t decipher. 

 

\--

 

‘Why did you bring me here?’ Mary doesn’t turn to Gabriel, but she knows he’s there. 

Mary’s in the parking lot, leaning against Sam and Dean’s shiny black car. Sam and Dean are in their room, just back from a hunt, and she can see them through the window-glass. Sam has a gash on his forearm and Dean is cutting off Sam’s sleeve, his hands slow and careful. 

‘Aww, look at them,’ Gabriel murmurs. ‘Aren’t they precious?’

‘Quit screwing around. I need answers.’ 

‘You already have the answers, sweetheart.’ Gabriel tilts his head in the direction of the room, where Dean is now sitting beside Sam, sewing up the wound. Gabriel smiles lopsidedly. ‘Just like watching a movie, right?’

‘Hold on,’ Mary says, her head spinning like the world just turned on its axis. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Are you trying to say that none of this is real?’

‘Maybe you’re the one who isn’t real.’ Gabriel smiles widely, clearly enjoying himself thoroughly. ‘Maybe your world’s just’—he wiggles his fingers like a street magician performing an act—‘a figment of my boundless imagination. Maybe there’s just one me, and just one you, and everything else is like images in a funhouse mirror.’

Mary wills herself not to shudder, isolation piercing through her, hot and bitter and terrifying. ‘You’re one sick fuck, you know that?’ 

There’s no answer, the parking lot completely empty aside from her. A tiny shred of breeze makes a few scattered leaves dance around the ground, and she’s reminded of a line from a poem: _like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing_.

‘I won’t go back,’ she says, turning her face up to the silent, inky sky. ‘I won’t, you hear me?’ It seems to be the thing to say, even if she isn’t sure she means it.

‘Glad to hear it.’ She turns around to see Sam standing there, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. He gives her a small smile.

 

\--

 

‘Draw me a sheep?’ the little boy asks in her dream that night. It feels different, somehow: less like a vision, more like a memory.

‘Come here, baby.’ She gathers him close, rocking him as he hiccups through his tears.

He finally calms down when she takes him to Sammy’s room, and they look down together at the sleeping baby, one tiny fist curled into his blanket.

‘Don’t be scared,’ she murmurs, rocking Dean to sleep in her arms. ‘Don’t be scared, baby. Angels are watching over you both.’

 

-end-


End file.
